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Poem



My sleep breaks every morning when I hear
the first chatter of a couple of grey pigeon,
from their nest made outside the window near,
I know it’s time to get up, take the new day on.

I see a slice of sparkling sky through the window,
emerge from the veil of night as the dulcet dawn,
changing color by minutes from gray to yellow,
as the sun slowly rises up the halcyon horizon.

My heart then seeks the morning ritual not new,
of the uplifting feeling in the brimful bone-china cup,
the hot comforting embrace of the reviving brew,
as from the beloved bed I listlessly get up. 

I enjoy the various types of tea and their progeny,
herbal, green, brown and even rousingly spicy, 
get delight from the flavor sonata in the sip of glee,
as with the steam flight the specks of indolence flee.

Gaining pure pleasure from the convivial concoction,
I see the dance of leaves stirring the elixir in the tea, 
infusing the Himalayan fragrance in the elite potion,
as I taste enthralled the famous Darjeeling delicacy.

The aroma of the golden liquid awakens my sense,
and into irresistible drinking dependence it drives me,
turns me into an addict of its pleasure hence,
enthuses me to drink every morning a cup of tea.

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